


oh the fantastic sunshine of the earth

by Swamp_Cat



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Other, and being safe enough to recover, honestly might put some gender shit up in this bitch, subscirbe for gay family dynamics, watch the fuck out allright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swamp_Cat/pseuds/Swamp_Cat
Summary: For all that has happened, being touched feels so good. It feels so good that tears burn the underside of his eyelids, and no scorching heat of past or circumstance could make him stop loving how it feels.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hated the ending of the movie! hated it! fuck that! also there are more poc in the fucking roaring twenties than that so if you wanna see ref's for newt as a write him just ask! 
> 
> heres my mixtape https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLd3vp17Sv0DuMS2KRdxXsiPKO2PCCPRU2
> 
> (I edited and reposted the first chapter. enjoy, babes)

Modesty cocked her head. She supposed it sort of looked like a tree, if it were night. If trees were angry, or alive. Or burning from the inside out. She was reminded of stoking the ashes and charred wood of the fireplace, fingers aching with cold.

The formless thing, (or the thing that had much too many forms), moved very fast. Sometimes it appeared to build itself a structure, a twisted and agonized face, before collapsing like black sand in the wind once more. Shifting and shuddering, it fraught the ceilings planks, whisping black dust across the wood without ever seeming to touch anything. It moaned like a thing and a person, both of which were very unhappy to be so close to the other. 

 

Modesty steeled herself. 

 

“Credence?” 

 

As the word rebounded, a strange stillness claimed the phantom. While it did not stop moving, it began to contain itself to one area, simmering with barely concealed energy. 

Curiosity hummed through Modesty's fingers, anxiety jumping in her gut. She was almost certain. While there was no conventional likeness to her mostly solid brother, it had a familiar taste about it. It shivered like Credence. Seeing that made something small and angry ache inside her, an organ that usually only saw the light of small desperate rooms, rooms filled with shouting and pain. 

Modesty held out a trembling palm. The shadow recoiled, so, so subtly. 

 

“It's okay,” Modesty said to the ghost. “She's dead now. It's okay if you get upset, and it's okay if you come back.” She took a deep sigh. “Nobody will hurt you. Not anymore.” 

 

_

 

Being solid was a let down. Bones were heavy, like lead, like the decaying steel of abandoned things. The chaotic dust of him that seemed so powerful before had settled to the bottom of everything, making movement a slow game of bitter exhaustion and deep frustration. Modesty had to stop for him every few steps. Stuck staring at the pavement, he wanted to scream, to break. Credence wanted to make the ground ache like he did. 

Instead, he took Modesty's small palm in his and walked forward. Aimless, but forward. 

 

_

 

Hunger tainted the air, the scent of salty harbor ugly and violent to their sensitive noses. Wary birds clacked from tall posts. Modesty looked decidedly queasy, face overcolored and gaunt. Each step they took, she begged more to sit. Credence could do nothing but appeal to her, with no destination and no desire to torment tired little girls. 

The early morning broke through the clouds in watery yellow light, a surreal underline to Credences extreme fatigue. He was numbed in every direction. Modesty had slept on his back last night as he tugged them across the city. 

The catastrophic sound of labor and boats hugged his body, uncomfortable, bordering on claustrophobic. Trying not to flinch at the crates slamming against the dock, he sat, tucking Modesty under his arm, huddling both their forms closer together against cold and damp, hunching shoulders away from invisible harm. 

The wood of the bench was wet. It was clear Modesty was trying not to squirm against the cold, and for a moment Credence felt the most keen desire to live in a place where Modesty was not afraid to complain of anything. 

He wanted to  _ yell,  _ to kick and scream and make everyone hear him. He wanted everyone who knew to yell with him, every child, every starved orphan washed against the walls of the city. He wanted all of this more than anything, and he wanted it while sitting absolutely still. 

 

After a fashion, he'd already gotten it. 

The memory sat ill as an ocean in his stomach. 

 

It was a rush of hideous feeling, so many he couldn't even discern- couldn't separate- 

 

Modesty was peering at him with wide eyes. Someone was calling his name. 

 

Time stretched like taffy as Modesty and Credence spoke silently, birdlike, just on the edge of breaking. There was a worn and well versed way to say  _ run _ in the Barebone family. The two siblings were waiting for the other to give the call. 

 

Credence recognized the voice. It was lilted, unfamiliar- british? 

It was wearing polished brown shoes and standing right in front of him. 

Scratch that- crouching. 

 

The voice belonged to a man younger than he would have thought, somebody who couldn't be much older than Credence himself. The most present thought he could muster was  _ freckles.  _

 

“Credence?” His smile was blinding. “Oh my- Oh, my.” 

 

_ This man is a little odd _ , Credence thought. 

 

“ _ Brilliant.”  _ he breathed out. 

 

The man continued to look, all at once delicate and intensely appraising. It was a harmless type of odd, Credence decided, looking right back with wide eyes. Modesty shifted in a way that disagreed, but Credence stayed firm. 

He was good at knowing right away. This person was not full of secrets or knives, or secret knives,  _ not _ Mr. Graves. The stranger’s eyes flicked down. Modesty gave a panicked  _ meep _ from underneath Credences arm. 

 

“Oh my,” he said, eyes bulging. “I'm afraid my manners are- atrocious. Occupational hazard, I must confess, I don't believe I'll ever get better. Ask anyone, really.” There was a sheepish flush to his dark skin, a friendly tug to his lip. It cemented Credence’s good opinion. 

 

He lifted the arm Modesty clung to and wrapped it around her shoulders, giving her a hopefully comforting squeeze and slight glance. 

 

“This is Modesty, my kid sister.” Credence told him. Modesty glared daggers into the side of his head. She hated being introduced. There was a night, dank and cold, where the little girl had tugged him to his level in the street and declared  _ I am an enigma. This is not your fact to change.  _ He loved her dearly. 

 

The man's eyes practically glowed. He stood, finally, feet fidgeting excitedly. 

“I,” he took a breath. “am Newt Scamander.” 

Newt grinned, full of teeth. 

 

“I think I can help you.” 

 

_ 

 

“ _ Newt Salamander?” _

 

Credence felt a twinge in his lower belly, mouth seizing unnoticably. He squeezed Modesty’s little fingers, his palm slightly warmer than her digits, and kept mum. They were only a few feet behind the man himself. Modesty could get away with words like those, but for Credence, it had never been forgiven. She did not like his silence, however, and jogged a bit to keep up with his fast pace trailing Mr. Scamander. 

 

“Isn’t that a  _ worm?”  _ she hissed. 

Credence squeezed again, the stirrings of panic making themselves known. 

 

Mr. Scamander's shoulders jumped. “An amphibian, actually.”  

 

Modesty’s eyes just about boggled out of her head. 

 

“A bit like a lizard.” He added. 

 

Modesty tucked her tongue in her cheek, thoughtful. “Oh.” 

 

Credence’s mouth cramped again, this time with more force. 

 

“What’s a lizard?” 

Credence felt a shift in Mr. Scamander’s gait.

 

Newt smiled at the two of them, bright. “Why don’t I just show you?” 

 

_

  
  


He spun around, breathless. 

 

It was a  _ suitcase. _

It was  _ magic.  _

Something fizzy and sort of amazing welled up in his stomach and eyes. They were in a suitcase, it was impossible. It was dizzying, overwhelming. There were more fantastically clear colors in a  _ suitcase _ than Credence supposed he had ever seen in one room at once, if Times Square didn’t count. But all the joy spilling out of theatres and dazzling “secret” speakeasies, gentlemen’s clubs, even the sweet sound of jazz on Harlem, or the hints of raucous laughter- these small collected scraps of color he kept so close, they were nothing like this, and at the same time  _ just like this, oh, in every right way. _ He had never had the hope to imagine being inside of something so very very  _ close _ to everything he wanted. The enchanted nature of the place bled from the walls and into the heart of Credence’s body. 

 

A new soon cut the room. Credence jumped, only to realize what startled him was the noise of his own laughter, which made him laugh harder, light with disbelief and chagrin. 

The telltale noises of a scuffle came from the ladder as Newt finally tumbled in behind the siblings, clothing and curls in ungainly disarray. Credence found himself cataloging the things by his now grounded shoes. There was a large tome in cracked leather-bound red, countless smaller tomes stacked atop it, loose scrolls of finely inked paper, feathers, a jar of glittering bugs, a hank of rope. His eyes followed the rope to a large wheel of it, which was placed in front of numerous cabinets and drawers built in a rustic light yellow wood, the system of storage leading into the wall. There was no end. Each detail multiplied infinitely smaller. 

 

The sight before them rendered Modesty wide eyed and breathless, Credence himself- 

There was so much. Even as they stood in the small room, these undeniably precious things were just there to be seen, glittering with intrigue, free to the eye- it was more than overwhelming. It was  _ magic. It was magic. Magic.  _

Something bright and beautiful bubbled in Credences chest, aching curiously. 

 

Modesty turned to Newt, gaping, mouth hanging open. 

“Are you a  _ witch?”   _

 

Silence rang in the small room. Memories of words that dropped like air raid sirens- even in a different house, different life- struck them both to the bone. Credence dared not breathe, looking but not seeing as Modesty went pallid as milk, both of them still as a cat watching a mouse- 

 

The full toothed grin smacked across Mr. Scamander’s face was nothing short of ridiculous. Sincerity in something other than grim somberness was not anything like something they had experienced before, but mysteriously the seemingly useless display had done its job, and the danger in both their minds had passed before it had come. A thought struck Credence that it was very hard to feel afraid in the company of someone so- soft around the edges. 

Newt Scamander was a fundamentally round person. His wrinkled shirt, wide jaw, the freckles that nearly overwhelmed his features. It was startling like a hit to the face, if the assailant’s weapon of choice had been a ball of felt.  

 

Newt remembered himself, but it only seemed to make him smile wider. 

 

“Most people- who also have magic- would call me a wizard.” 

 

He was beginning to feel desperately outlandish. 

 

Mr. Scamander shook out his hair. “I’m afraid it’s a mess. I hope to make you two comfortable here, that is, if… well.” He smiled again. “That is if you wish to stay. It’s not a permanent lodging, not even for myself, and I do plan to travel back to the United Kingdom, I understand if it’s… well.” 

Credence took Modesty’s hand in his, and her playfully churlish look understood perfectly well who’s comfort it was for. She was humming with excitement. He rubbed her thumb, finding a fine layer of dirt. Credence glanced down, hollowly shocked to find a solid set of legs underneath him. He was in his shirtsleeves, he realized. Further examination confirmed they were both in terrible shape, and although he had no clean clothing for them to change into, it couldn’t hurt to wash. He met Newt Scamander’s eyes for the first time. 

 

“May we use your water closet?” 

 

Mr. Newt nearly fell over himself to accommodate their request. 

 

_

  
  


The water closet was, in fact, a large room with a basin more akin to an animal trough than any bathing tub Credence had ever seen. The embarrassed flush on Newt’s face confirmed such suspicions, but at a wave of a  _ wand _ he pulled from his pocket, the trough filled with steaming water and short, fluffy lengths of cloth danced into the room and folded at its foot. This display left both Credence and Modesty slack jawed in wonder. Newt tucked his tool carefully back into a pocket less hidden than Credence would have expected, but stopped short at their expressions.

 

“Oh,” Newt said. 

“Ah, yes, this is my wand.” He held it up for them to see.  “I use it for- all sorts of things, I suppose. Credence, your magic, we will-” An excited gleam caught in his eye. “We will explore what a wand can do for you, but as for me, it does just about everything.” 

 

Credence spluttered, bewildered. His magic? What on earth would he do with a wand? 

Before he could chase this line of questioning, an insistent tugging on his pinkie finger dragged his gaze downward.

Modesty looked as though she might implode if she kept silent for a moment longer. He might’ve laughed at her intense curiosity, but there was no telling what she would do to him. Nothing forgiving. With a furious look to Credence and a nod returned, she unleashed the floodgates. 

 

“Mr. Salamander sir, what makes the wand magic?” 

Delighted, Mr.  _ Scamander _ opened his mouth to reply, deeply underestimating Modesty.  

 

“Why does Credence have magic?” She continued. “Is it broken? How come you have a wand and he doesn’t? Was it Mother's fault?” She took a breath, letting go of Credences hand. “Can I touch the wand?” 

 

Newt could not have possibly held more joy in his face then he did in that moment. 

 

“Yes. I- yes.” A deliberate number of emotions passed through his face.  “Here, like this.” He crouched, holding the wand to Modesty and watching as her eyes hungrily scoured the bit of polished wood. As she was engaged, Newt looked up and met Credences eyes. He was asking a question. Credence bit down on his cheek. He did not have an answer. 

 

Modesty handed it back reluctantly. “It’s very pretty,” she said. 

 

“Thank you,” Newt replied, quiet with reverence. 

Credence met his eyes again then. Warmth sprung up in his chest. It came along with a familiar aching in his throat, the yet to be severed memories still connected to the feeling boiling up his insides. 

Newt looked back to Modesty. 

 

“I promise to answer all of your questions,” he said, serious as an oath. “Now I’ll leave you two be to bathe. And- Oh!” 

 

Both Credence and Modesty straightened their backs whip fast at the sudden noise. Credence dug his fingers into his palms. Newt snapped his fingers. 

 

“Clothes,” he pondered. “Yes.” 

 

Newt left the room, shutting the door softly behind himself, murmuring unintelligibly all the way. 

 

Modesty looked at Credence. Credence looked at Modesty. Years and years of silence had taught them without language, and they didn’t need it now. But, Credence thought as he kneeled, nevertheless. He took Modesty’s shoulders in his hands, so light, so careful. 

 

A breath dragged in. And out. Modesty put a hand over his own deeply scarred left. They did nothing but stand and breathe for a long, long time. 

_

 

_ He had never been in water so hot. The Barebone church had a dry basin, rags and water that had to be boiled if you wanted heat. This water felt as though it could burn off the past six months, and Credence sank deeper, and he prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and prayed. _

 

The clothing Newt had found for him was very fine. 

Not in terms of fancy dress, or even fashion, but- the trousers were soft brown wool, cuffing just above the ankles, the underclothes clean linen. The shirt was worn but not in any way threadbare, instead of reassuring firmness. Credence arranged his own suspenders with the trousers, thanking God he had no belt in the part of his mind that didn’t speak. There was no tie. He had no shoes. By the door of the room Credence had dressed in, there was a polished sheet of metal. It no doubt functioned as a mirror. 

The sight of his sharp face snapped like glass. His eyes seemed warped in their dark intensity. The unforgiving line of his hair made him feel sick, and he pushed his hands through it, again and again until it was unrecognizable and thoroughly undignified. He left the room without another look. 

 

Newt glanced at him, then again as he came into the room where the ladder led outside of the case. Credence ducked his head and quirked his mouth. 

Modesty bounded from where she had been leaning over a book large enough to eat her with Newt, and Credence was amused to see she was wearing a much smaller version of his own trousers and shirt. It suited her tendency to stomp. 

 

“Your hair,” she said. “I like it.” 

Credence ruffled her loose blonde head, which made her snarl like a cat. Newt was grinning when he looked again. Credence let Modesty pull him to the book that had garnered their attention. 

 

“It’s a detailed directory of magical creatures,” Newt explained. “I was going to show Modesty a lizard. The closest I could find was…” 

 

Spread across the page was a detailed illustration of a giant worm-like creature (if worms had eyes, mouths and legs) spewing fire on an unsuspecting home. Credence stifled a laugh. He did not know much better than Modesty on lizards, but he was aware this was rather far fetched from the reptile. 

He looked at Newt, feigning ignorance. 

 

“Can  _ you _ do this, Mr. Salamander?” 

The words were wispy as he said them, but it made no difference to excitable Modesty, who practically began to vibrate at the suggestion. 

The slight very nearly passed over blinking Newt’s head. Credence was beginning to regret his attempt at humor, when-

Newt let out a barking laugh. “Oh,” he looked to Modesty. 

“No, no, I can’t do that.” he forced the words through his amusement. The laughter was tinged a bit self derisive, and as he moved Modesty onto less disappointing topics, he looked at Credence. It was a nice look, he thought. It felt very nice. 

 

_

 

Modesty sat squished in between the two men, her endless repertoire of questions finally as tired as she. 

The three of them had spent an indeterminable amount of time squeezed into Newt’s only armchair, (plush, patched and mauve) catering to her hunger for answers. It must’ve been dark outside at this point, but none of them had left the magical case since entering and had no sky to tell. 

Modesty flexed her toes, her legs dangling a few feet from the floor. Despite her clear exhaustion, she dutifully flipped through the pages of Mr. Scamander’s book, eyes half lidded. Credence doubted she was really looking. She despised being put to bed even in the Barebone household, where being awake after nine o’clock was a punishable offense. Credence had intervened many times for Modesty in this, many times she had no knowledge of and hopefully never would. She had friends who were orphans, she had always known New York better than him, always running around and causing mischief. 

He pulled a few locks of hair from her face as she yawned.

 

Newt smiled, and Credence smiled, because Newt was even further gone than his little sister. He’d been teaching her until his throat went sore. As Newt was overcome with a cavernous yawn to contest Modesty’s, Credence made a low noise in his throat and gently took the book from the tired girl’s hands. She whined in annoyance, but was ultimately powerless against overwhelming fatigue. 

Newt blinked at him as well. Credence closed the book and placed it at the foot of the chair, jittery with apprehension and the notion that he had been overstepping their welcome ever since stepping through the door. But Newt only stretched and yawned again, so Credence picked up Modesty and stood. Her eyes slid shut. Newt smiled again. 

 

“Let’s get her to bed, then.” 

 

_

  
  


Newt did not have a bed. He had a hammock. Credence tried not to be visual in his disapproval, but Newt read it loud and clear anyway, his face flushed red as a tomato. Modesty would love it, at least. She snuggled into it all the same. 

They lingered a bit, both too tired to be crisp in their action. They watched Modesty sleep, their company quiet, but not stifling. Credence had never known a quiet so fulfilling. 

Modesty’s even breathing became the only sound in the room, and Credence let that fill him up. He told his rapid heartbeat that they were safe, they were  _ safe _ this time, just in case it listened. The incessantly buzzing energy under his skin didn’t agree. 

Newt rubbed his hands together, turning to Credence with his body but not eyes. 

 

“I have something to show you. It’s- I. Um.” 

 

He looked at him. Newt parted his lips and let out a long, deep breath. 

 

He spoke on the next exhale. “Are you okay? I am so sorry about what happened, I could not be more relieved than I felt on finding you two safe and sound. Oh, I,” his voice wavered with emotion. Something tugs on the air in his lungs.

“I am so  _ angry  _ about what they did to you. You did  _ nothing _ to provoke such cruel violence,  _ nothing,  _ and your  _ mother-” _ He covered his mouth and furrowed his brow in anger. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Credence said, distraught to see tears gathering in Newt’s eyes. 

 

Newt laughed, an apologetic sound, and wiped his eyes. 

 

“Why are you apologizing? And why am I getting so upset, you’re the one-” he rested his cheek on his palm.

Credence thought,  _ I don’t know why I’m apologizing. _ Seeing someone upset made him want to fix something, and  _ sorry _ was the first fixing word he could think of. He looks at Newt’s hands, now tight fists, and thinks maybe Newt is the same way. Maybe this is why when Newt holds up his arms, offering touch, he doesn’t say no. Why it doesn’t even occur to him to say no. 

 

For all that has happened, being touched feels  _ so good.  _ It feels so good that tears burn the underside of his eyelids, and no scorching heat of past or circumstance could make him stop loving how it feels. Warmth spreads through him, tender and aching.  It’s possible he makes noises, or says something, because Newt is cooing a little bit, and the shushing noises the man rubbing his back makes sound sort of choked up, too. The pressure of arms around his chest feels like safety, and indescribable security of mind. It lasted a long time, a perfect amount of time, such a remarkably, satisfyingly, long time. 

Not long enough. 

“There's so much for you to know, oh. I,” Newt hiccuped on the last syllable. “Gracious.” 

 

Credence tripped over his breath to speak. “W-we can start tomorrow.”  _ Lord, we can start tomorrow. I’m alright. I’m okay tonight. _

 

The room was dark, painted in sheet thick blues and dark blues, and darker yet. There was a thin ray of light from the case’s exit penetrating the air; it was so gold, Credence thought. As his eyes picked and wandered the scene around him, he couldn't look away from that sliver of gold for long. He was so tired, and the blue was so soft, but he didn’t go to sleep. Not yet. He didn’t want sleep to take any of this from him yet. 

If he let go of it, even for a minute, it might slip away. 

 

They had laid on an enormous pile of blankets and straw, which Newt had fetched from the mysterious door direct from the stairs leading inside: Credence had pressed his ear against it and heard animals. It was all so excruciatingly wonderful. 

Newt, asleep beside him, sighed and rolled over. Credence watched his dark head, with it’s own tender reflection of warm amber light, the rise and fall of the ribcage inside his chest. It was so real, right next to him. So incomprehensibly touchable. The form he made draped in bedding, each detail proportionate. This was not fantasy. The world of living that lived inside Credence’s mind was articulate, was explosive with hope, detailed and intricate, but right then, right there, he felt the width between there and this. The solid, sickly thing inside him which convinced him from the beginning that there was no  _ this  _ fell away, and he rested his head. 

He felting something come into its place, and closed his eyes. 

 


	2. are goblins real?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reverse aesthetic adams family vibes

He woke before anybody else. 

 

It was not a dream. The whole little bubble of heaven was still there, it had not been taken from him yet. Credence laid paralyzed by relief. 

He laid on his back and breathed. He counted six ins, and five outs, and then did it again but pretended he was going backwards through the first ones. 

Noises bled through the door & the rooms only lightsource, a door which led to believe that it lead  _ outside. _ No, Credence would not be going back to sleep. 

 

Soundlessly, he slipped from their pallet on the floor and retraced his steps to Modesty’s hammock. He sat with here there until she woke, and until Newt woke and found them. 

The day was warm. 

 

“Why can’t we feel the rocking of the ship?” Credence asked across the table. They ate oat cakes and honey, each three full-bodied and bright with sweetness. Newt had lit oil lamps, which concerned Credence. Too much fire in such a small room. Newt worked on chewing his oversized mouthful of food, presumably to answer, and Credence tilted his head and observed the glint of light on their silverware. Running a rough fingernail on the wood of the table, savoring the sensation. 

 

“I’ve placed a kind of stabilizing charm on the case,” Newt said. “It keeps gravity on the floor.”

With a thoughtful look, he reiterated; “I’ve actually no idea how it works.” 

Modesty stuffed a heel of bread in her mouth, furrowing her pale brows. Credence watched Newt carefully. Newt only lifted another pile of food to his mouth, absentmindedly sprinkling some kind of herb into a stone bowl beside his elbow with the other hand. There had been no kind of reprimand in his company, none at all, but Modesty, in her free hands and hunger, had never been reprimanded. Not like  _ that.  _

Another knot untied in Credence’s chest. The noise of their eating eased his head. Modesty appeared to be thinking deeply, enjoying her food with relish and no thought to consequence. Newt busied his hands, the set of his shoulders and pace of his work betraying slight awkwardness. Credence mused he must not have much time with others, not in his case. The entire thing about it was so intimate, Newt’s interaction with everything there. The sense he had that they were some kind of strange intrusion to him fed on this observation. 

It seemed Newt was not the kind to naturally appeal towards company, and yet had made such an effort for them. A wonderful effort. A  _ splendid  _ effort. No one has ever been so nice to him before. 

 

At least, so nice and so…. unhungry. That was something to learn as things went on, too. If a good thing asked for a terrible action, maybe it wasn’t so good. 

  
  


Credence twisted his bare feet together under the table, relishing the new warm and free sensation. He felt connected to everything underneath him. In only 14 hours, he had decided to never wear shoes again. Not if he could help it. 

Somewhere, a clock ticked, polite and concise. 

 

When Credence had finally finished his meager portion, Newt stretched and ate his last mouthful. “Alright,” he said, brisk. 

 

“Modesty, would you like to meet my creatures?” 

 

_

 

As it just so happened, she did. 

 

Credence didn’t quite mind either. 

In fact, he thought his eyes might’ve broken. And his mouth. It was making dreadfully embarrassing noises of excitement, and he’d be embarrassed, if it weren’t that every squawk was answered in kind with a shouted “I know!” or equally wide eyed, foolish grin. It seemed they’d learned to communicate with only vague noises now. Credence had certainly used up all his words, perhaps more than he’d said in a day since Ms. Barebone stopped making him give moral reports on the other orphans behavior. He only ever told her they were all doing well anyway. It only ever meant no one ever wanted to tell him anything.

 

He didn’t dare blink. 

Modesty hopped onto Credences shoulders so that she could pet the head of a massive, leathery creature that had tentacles coming out of its mouth. Or, they were its mouth. He had questions. While she patted its temple Credence was treated to a very ticklish form of affection. 

He couldn’t stop giggling, even after it had moved on to try and bowel over Newt. All of the animals treated Newt like a parent, or a friend. Not every one of them were very keen on the case, but if anything most irritation seemed begrudging rather than resentful. 

 

Newt requested respect and seemed to receive it. Credence thought it was wonderful how everyone managed to be some kind of friend. 

 

He didn’t think he’d like animals so very much. Truthfully, “like” wasn’t a big enough word for the abject infatuation and fascination he was currently experiencing. There was so much to know and so much to ask that it seemed if he didn’t ask everything now, it’d take over his body, and then he’d be left hopping about and shouting “WHAT!” like some kind of hobgoblin. 

_ Oh god, were hobgoblins real too?  _

 

Modesty clambered off his back, not being very careful at all with what she used as a foothold or handhold. When Credence was done going  _ Ow, Ouch, Modesty- Really!  _ She grabbed his hand and starting spinning him around. They hadn’t done something so silly since Credence was much younger, and even then he’d been the one spinning Modesty. He could only laugh and try to push them both away from anything fragile, predicting the impending loss of his balance. Modesty had always teased him for being much too large, and Ma had hated it, so he tended to hunch. Combined with a natural predisposition for clumsiness, well. He was flat on his back very soon. 

 

Something was a bit jumbly, though. Sounds were swimming through one ear and right out the other. But- there- a sharp one- he caught that. Modesty was calling his name. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Credence, you exploded.” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

Newts face was all up in his face suddenly. His chest seized in fear at the proximity, and the sudden realization he’d lost his mind around the animals. 

Unfortunately, his body translated those impulses into trying to sit up as fast as possible. 

Newt, as he was a witch (wizard) but could not actually predict the future, did not move away fast enough. There was a horrible  _ crack _ on impact. Pain erupted in his face and he groaned, dropping his back to the ground again. Somewhere above him Newt swore colorfully. 

“Aw, I’m so sorry, Mr-”

 

“Fine, fine, it’s all fine Credence-” 

 

“Shouldn’t ‘a-”

 

“No harm done, well, not to-” He removed a hand from his bleeding nose and laughing nasally. “Not to the animals.” 

Credence sat up and blinked blearily. Newt was watching him with a particular look, and a little smile, so he knew he wasn’t in trouble. 

 

“You sorta just, poofed. Didn’t go nowhere,” Modesty said from where she stood, with the kind of aloof disregard for safety that scared the absolute shit out of Credence. 

 

“Incredible,” said Newt, who was still looking at him, and who still had an alarming amount of blood dripping down his chin. Credence yelped when he realized. Newt barely stirred. 

 

“Newt- your nose.” 

 

“Mmhm.” 

 

Modesty giggled. 

 

Newt looked at her, then started. “Oh, oh, of course.” He pulled out his wand and whispered a word that sounded suspiciously like “repair” with an -o tacked on the end. For some reason, Credence thought spells would be in backwards latin, or something. This revelation was honestly a bit of a let down. Did all spells sound like some kind of fad-tonic? 

 

For a moment Credence thought that perhaps he hadn’t done it right, because Newt’s face was still covered in blood. They all stared at each other for a bit, wide eyed and a little wild. 

 

Eventually Credence just couldn’t take it anymore. He clapped a hand over his mouth deliberately, slowly, and then broke down into sizzling laughter. Modesty started laughing next, silly sounding snickers and cackles. Credence thought, wildly,  _ we’re just sitting here laughing at this poor man,  _ but then Newt was laughing too. 

Newt’s laugh was… Credence had tears in his eyes, it was so funny. He was doubled over, the big, wheezing guffaws apparently taking a physical toll on him. 

Credence laid down again and groaned when he realized he was actually getting a little lightheaded. “Stop, stop,” he panted through the hilarity. Quietly, they all came down and breathed evenly. Modesty was having the hardest time relegating her giggles, and everytime she started up, Newt couldn’t help himself but follow, and then Credence was chuckling all over again. He groaned when stars appeared in his vision, a great pull tugging at his head just like when you stood up too fast and everything went dark. 

“Uh, guys?” Credence warbled. 

 

“I think I need help getting up.” 

 

_

  
  


Living in an enchanted suitcase was… well, it was probably the best thing to ever happen to someone for whom magic hadn’t really existed three months ago, let alone two orphans who’d never stepped foot out of New York city. 

One morning, Newt had asked how they liked it, and even if there was anything they thought could be better. (This seemed like an atrociously generous thing to say to Credence. Anything that could be  _ better? _ He already gave them food, whenever they asked for it, for free!) Modesty, though, had very much to say on the topic. Most of breakfast was taken up by that line of questioning.

Credence had sat opposite to the rapid back-and-forth, mulling the question. The truth was, he could not possibly quantify how much he liked it in words, and so when Newt looked at him and asked “and you, Credence?” he just flapped his mouth and said “It’s very good”. 

 

It was, too. 

 

_

 

For all that it was very good, though, Credence sometimes felt as though there were degrees of separation between him and the world, or even his mind and his body. Sometimes he thought,  _ It can’t really be so good. It can’t really be so easy. Nothing comes like this, what if you’re dead? What if you’ve really just snapped and you’re stuck in some sick mind world while your body kills, and kills, and kills, and- _ and so on. 

Although the “obscurus” did not move to hurt anybody, he felt no control over it at all, an almost startling difference to the way things had been before. Then, his safety relied on his control. But then he’d done it wrong, pushed it so deep that it didn’t remember how to come up right. It became another demon trying to hurt him, another lash he could not lean away from. It attacked him whenever it wanted to and then it attacked others, too, like only  _ it _ had permission to hurt Credence. In a way it made sense. It wanted him to be safe, and it didn’t know how. 

 

When he’d… died, in the subway, something had just  _ gave.  _ An essential string, loosened. A door was opened, or a wall smashed away. Every single thing he’d known seemed somehow changed, as if he’d been living in a world his whole life and only now turned around to see all the buildings were playsets, with nothing inside. His mother was dead, and she had been Law, and now that was gone. Completely gone. He’d had no future, then, he’d had nothing but pain and servience to the Lord and eventually Hell. To be honest, now he was thinking that might be gone too.

Even his face looked different. And he’d seen books, sure, but he’d never  _ seen  _ books. 

People, colors, the sky, the taste of cold water and the smell of copper. He was learning them all for the first time ever, like he was a baby again. 

He’d never noticed what soil smelt like, or how it felt in his hands. 

Under the suitcases artificial sun, he’d sit with his knees in the dirt and just breathe. 

It was the most wonderful thing he’d ever done. It was the most terrifying thing he’d ever done. He couldn’t believe that he’d lived his whole life up until that point and never done it: how much more was there? How many more wonderful, terrifying things that he couldn’t even imagine? 

 

He saw Modesty hop around, so gleeful. So much like himself at that age. He thought he ought to stay in his body a little while longer. 

 

_

 

When the boat across the ocean  _ finally  _ made land, Newt Scamander, Credence Barebone, and Modesty Barebone stepped over the ramp, over the water, and onto dirt. When they did this they saw the sun. They saw the english countryside for the first time ever. They saw an ocean. While they watched it, Newt watched them, his face soft and mouth mischievous.

 

He liked to observe while invisible. There was nothing in him, quite, that could see to the heart of a person practically- no diagram or color appeared before his eyes. 

But he watched. He looked and learned, and he looked at the two people before him. The sun lit them up with a curious kind of magic. 

 

They were both smiling, tired and disheveled in the early morning, glowing with it. 

He thought they looked like the picture of hope. 

 

_

  
  


“Oops!” Newt yelped. 

 

“Oh, terribly sorry there, here-“ he pulled Credence up from where he’d been slammed to the ground. 

 

“I’m okay,” he wheezed, despite the wind having been knocked around a bit in his chest. 

Newt gusted out a relieved breath at the announcement, and juggled his books and papers into a more amicable tower. 

 

Credence took the opportunity of of broken eye contact to collect his wits. For the past three days, the guardians of Newt Scamander's enchanted case had been whipped into a frenzy when one small, dirty envelope had been shuttered through the post by owl: the notice for Newts content deadline. 

Credence hasn’t even known witches had their own post system. Or publishing companies. 

 

He cleared his throat. “Actually, Newt?”

 

“Mmm?” 

 

“I had a question- I mean,”

 

Newt broke his reorganizing and looked up. “Of course! Anything,” 

 

They both stopped and tittered at the interruption. Credence nicked at his cuticles. They’d never been so frayed from physical work. One collected such a strange array of injury from the chores to do there, and although it was horrifically ironic, he enjoyed the novelty of an accidental injury. It made him feel very real. 

“Well, I.” Credence stopped. He hummed. A habit he’d never break and perhaps never stop being embarrassed about, when his words didn’t know what shape to make and came out anyway. 

But Newt, he was patient. Their conversations didn’t have a time limit. 

 

“So, you know, what happened in the subway tracks.” Newt nods. His face doesn’t change at all, and that’s relieving somehow, that he understands they aren’t meant to go into how bad it feels, and if they did he might feel gross. 

“Well, when I- stopped being a big cloud.” Newt nods again. He seems slightly rapt. (He’d learned that Newt listens very hard and it is sometimes daunting.)

“I think that I might have- well, um. Died.” 

 

Credence immediately regrets this phrasing as extremely complicated things start happening to Newts face. 

 

“And clearly!” his voice cracks. “I didn’t, at least not all the way, but. I certainly didn’t end with the same amount of me that I went in with.” 

Newt nods, worrying his lip. He’d put on his hard focusing face. 

He takes a deep, fortifying breath. 

“And for awhile, you know, it was hard being a- a body again. And I think I have, um. I may have recreated my original body.” 

 

Newts mouth falls open. 

 

“Out of magic.” 

 

Credence pressed his lips together. Newt gaped. 

 

With sudden abruptness, his lips snapped shut. 

“Right.” His eyes widened. 

 

“ _ Right!  _ Alright. Credence!” Credence jumped. 

Newt did some kind of whole-body movement that ended with his arms putting their cargo on an already cluttered table top. 

“ _ Merlin’s  _ Beard, you astounding creature!” With his wiley arms now free, he throws them up into the air like a proclamation. 

“Follow me!” 

And with that, was off. 

Credence, to his infinite wonder, did follow him. 

 

_

  
  


Tucked into an impossibly hidden corner of Newt’s enchanted case, between one animal habitat and another, was a library. It wasn’t like any other library you could think of. Not the large one in the center of New York with tall shelves and golden lamps that you could see glowing through this windows. No, it was more of a big-ish closet, and rather than shelves, the books were all piled up on eachother, towering precariously to the dim ceiling. 

 

“Newt, I’m afraid I still don’t understand this extension charm business.” Credence hazardaded, peering up at the ceiling while he dodged the books which flew past Newt’s shoulders at an alarming rate. He seemed to be searching for something, but how he had time to read the covers of any of the books he was discarding, Credence did not know. 

 

Newt snorted and resurfaced, dust weighing down his hair and speckling his glasses. He looked a bit sheepish, but also like some kind of book goblin. Credence laughed at him. Newt rolled his eyes as though Credence couldn’t see, removing his round frame spectacles and cleaning them on a wayward shirt tail. “Credence, if anyone truly understood extension charms, I think there would be an honest-to-god revolution. Actually, I think that applies to… quite a bit of magic.” He scrunched his brow. He “Hmm,” ‘d and continued his searching. 

Credence stifled a long suffering sigh and crossed his arms. Then he thought better of it. No reason to be bored when surrounded by forbidden books, the saying went, didn’t it? 

 

Most of the books seemed quite old, and at first he worried they might be fragile. Then he side eyed Newt, the book tossing menace, and thought to throw caution to the wind. 

He picked up a slim volume carefully, one on top of a pile, so as not to disturb whatever order these stacks were in. Mentally, he made a note to ask Newt if he’d ever upended an entire stack and been near-suffocated before. It sounded like something he might’ve done. 

 

The book he’d picked was a purplish-mauve, bound in the pulp-like papery material that Credence thought felt like it could be a moth wing. There was golden, embossed words across the front, and he tilted the book this way and that, trying to get the light to hit it so he could read. 

Ah, there!  _ Rare Charmes and The Study of Their Creation.  _ Oh, dear. It appeared quite old. 

No problem. 

Credence opened it, holding it reverently as he saw the pictures inside were moving. (Modesty and Credence both had practically lost their minds when they discovered moving pictures, and now Modesty refused to read any book that didn’t have at least one. Newt told Credence not to worry, and that this was merely a sign of excellent taste. Credence asked if Newt had been the same as a child. ((He had.)) 

(((He still was.)))

The illustration on the page he’d flipped too seemed to depict someone…  Putting their cat into people clothes. The poor tabby was wearing a monocle and a waistcoat. This seemed to not be an actual step of the spell, as the person appeared to be manually dressing their cat in clothes. No, the charm itself was the fact that this clothing made the cat dance a little jig.  

Credence was definitely asking to keep this one. 

 

“Aha!’ Newt shouted, sneezing violently when his movement stirred up another catastrophic cloud of dust. 

 

“Here we are,” he said. “The only work ever written on the Obscurial. Other than  _ our _ work, that is,” he added with a wink. 

“Also, a few volumes on transfiguration theory, just to be safe.” 

He hopped to his feet and walked out the door without another word, at this point knowing Credence would do nothing but huff and follow. 

 

_

 

“So… according to this theory, my body is made of magic.”

 

Newt practically vibrated. “ _ Yes.”  _

 

Credence smiled at him, in reaction to him, incredulous and indulgent. Still, though, something plucked at his mind. “But… aren’t I…” he stopped. 

Newt waited for him to collect his thoughts. Credence did, and (laboriously) put them into order, moving his hands on the table as though moving them physically as he spoke. “People get created when they’re born. You can’t… Give birth to yourself.” He paused again, chewing the inside of his cheek, face scrunched up. He was aware he sounded ridiculous, but Newt made no protest, so he marched on. “But I, I lost most of my body. I sort of died. And then I… remade myself?” Newt nodded slowly, eyes on the floor. They were both thinking about it very hard. It was the kind of situation that slipped out of the mental grasp easily. 

 

Modesty heaved a melodramatic sigh. “This. is. so. boring.” 

Credence shot her his best older brother look, and she looked away mulishly but said no more. 

 

“Is any of the body I was born with left? What am I  _ made _ of?”  _ And while we’re on it, what is anything really made of? I’m so confused,  _ He did not say, although he wanted to. Any answer seemed to only give him more questions. 

 

Newt rubbed his chin and mouthed some words under his breath, nodding along to Credences question. 

Suddenly, he looked up, and with a frankly frightening determination. 

 

“Let’s test it,” he said. Credence squacked. 

 

“Don’t cut up Credence to see what he’s made of please Mr. Newt!” Modesty suddenly bellowed, her eyes wide. Newt jumped, now equally caught off guard. “Oh!” he shouted with realization. “No, no no no, certainly not! No, goodness, never.” 

 

“What I should have said,” Newt deliberated, “Is that I think that if this is true, Credence, and your body is a pure manifestation of magic- well, you should be able to alter it at will.” 

 

Credence stared at him. Then he stared at Modesty. She seemed as lost for any words as he did. 

 

“So,” Newt smiled. “Is there anything new you want to try?” 

 

“Hair,” Modesty and Credence said at exactly the same time. Newt pressed his lips very tightly together, like he was trying not to smile. Credence let him suffer.

“Oh,” he said, also very tightly “Well, I mean, it’s- if you think-” 

 

“Yes,” Credence said. “I think.” 

 

_

 

A few minutes later, Credence stood in the washroom in front of the mirror. Newt and Modest stood at his left and right, respectively. He was distinctly nervous, and his magic licked fire at him from the inside, like it was asking to come out and burn. 

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Credence huffed.

 

“Well,” Newt said. “There are incantations for transformative spells, but!” he interrupted as he caught Credences deeply apprehensive eye. “I think in this case, we may ought to appeal to the more intrinsic shape of your magic.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was a bit softer. “Is there any kind of way that it feels? Your… magic, or when your obscurus is active?” 

 

Credence looked at the porcelain sink and thought. There was the fire licking his insides, like now. Something about it was definitely his magic, but he didn’t think that was all it could be. Or, the core of it, the real truth of his magic. This was something it could  _ do, _ but not what it  _ was.  _

He thought of the swooping sensation in his chest when something caught the magics’ interest, something not inherently bad- it was like he could feel the cavern of the power within him. He’d never known it was power, and sure, until he met Him he’d thought it might be the devil or something, but. 

 

There was a kind of way when he was too sleepy to care about any bodily pain, and that his mind was in harmony with his body out of pure carelessness. Then, sometimes, he would do magic without even a thought or a word. He’d feared it, after, but during? It could’ve very well been an extension of his arm. 

And it could be warm, too, kind of like love. 

 

Credence thought of all that, and he stared at his hair in the mirror. It wasn’t really hard at all. It almost slipped right out of him. 

 

In fact, it was so easy, and came so quickly, that he totally overshot it. His eyes nearly popped out of his head at what he saw. Modesty gasped and Newt exclaimed under his breath. 

 

His hair reached nearly all the way down to his ankles. 

 

Newt was the first to speak. 

“Well. It’s certainly an improvement.” Modesty giggled, giving Newt permission to grin at them both. 

“And nothing burned or destroyed!” This was a reference to Credence’s cooking, not his magic. Newt was a bastard. 

 

Modesty buried her hands in the mane. “I’m braiding it.” 

 

“Okay,” Credence told her, entirely too dazed too protest. Newt and Modesty, in a truly adorable display of teamwork (that would have to be appreciated when his feet weren’t (metaphorically) five inches from the floor) each took one of Credences hands. Together, they led him to the most comfortable room in the case. Newt still had them living in the cheapest of clapboard apartments until he was ready to turn in his manuscript and move them all on. Newt helped Credence sit cross-legged on the rug, who thanked him quietly. Modesty grabbed her favorite pillow and sat down behind him, making sure he hadn’t sat on any of his hair. 

After a moment, she got tired of combing with her hands and of Newt’s hovering. She demanded he get them both real combs, and that he sit down as well to start working. Newt could do nothing but comply. He was only one witch, afterall. 

 

To Modesty’s surprise, (and not Credences)  Newt did know how to braid hair. He could do a fishtail braid, a french braid, and even a dutch braid. Modesty was quite put out as Ma had only ever done one kind of braid. She proclaimed that Newt’s talent was a result of circumstance, and that she had been put at an unfair disadvantage. He easily agreed. 

This only served to incense her further, and she demanded that Newt share his knowledge, as if she didn’t know he’d trip over himself to teach anyone anything. He began showing her how to do a french braid, using the left side of Credence's hair, while Modesty copied on the right. Credence could already tell one was much looser than the other, but he didn’t care. He was beginning to nod off to the rhythmic touches over his scalp, the pleasant tugs and and combing sending him further into that warm sleepy feeling he’d reached out to for his magic. While they moved further down, he dozed lightly, falling in and out of dreams he didn’t remember. The last feeling before sleep was hair curling over his shoulders, and the weightless feeling in his stomach before a short fall into something soft. 

He didn't think of anything at all. 

 


End file.
